


Nobody Gets Left Behind

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Fluff, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Multi, Pining!Sherlock, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how John realizes he owes Sherlock a bit more than he gave him, and what happens afterwards. Post-HLV fix-it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The timing was terrible.

At first, John had been able to convince himself that he was happy. He had been, really. The wedding had genuinely been one of the best days of his life, and Mary had looked beautiful, and Sherlock had surpassed all of John’s expectations. John had been surrounded by people he cared about, and if Sherlock had looked a little bit more melancholy than the occasion warranted, well, he would get over it. John hadn’t had any trouble pushing it from his mind, especially with the discovery that he was to be a father.

But from the end of their honeymoon, things had begun to go downhill. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Mary—he did, and she was perfect for him. She had to be. Anyone could see it. It was just that domestic bliss was….well, a little boring. A little pointless. But John believed in the future he had with Mary, and he was determined to outlast this period of uncertainty, or whatever it was. Surely it was just the change that was weighing on him. He would adapt. It was worth it, after all. So he stuck it out, refraining from fleeing to Baker Street or even texting Sherlock too often for fear that the detective would capture him with a word or two and reel John back into his orbit.

Then the nightmares had come back, and John had begun to worry.

Mary knew about John’s nightmares. He’d warned her when they had started sleeping together, telling her in halting sentences that he didn’t mind if she found it too much to deal with. Of course she’d responded with nothing but comfort and sympathy. Back then, his nightmares had all been about Sherlock, about seeing Sherlock’s head split open on the pavement and the blood dripping over his empty eyes, about the way his heart had leapt into his throat when Sherlock had said his last goodbye. He’d woken up screaming Sherlock’s name more times than he would like to admit, and Mary had been there, rubbing his back and holding him as John stared blankly ahead, trying to calm his thudding heart.

After settling in with his new wife, however, the old nightmares had begun trickling back in, and they had filled John with a sinking unease. He hadn’t dreamt about Afghanistan that much since before Sherlock, and for all he hated to admit that Mycroft had been right, John knew what they meant. It frustrated John to no end, because he was no longer supposed to be dependent on Sherlock Holmes for his happiness. He had someone new in his life now. Someone who was supposed to be first. He wasn’t supposed to need another person the way he needed Mary. 

He certainly wasn’t supposed to be dreaming about another person the way he was meant to dream about Mary.

Because it wasn’t just the nightmares that had returned. John had long ago admitted to himself that he wasn’t quite as straight as he had always thought, at least when it came to his flatmate. Back when it had been Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, solving crimes and saving lives, John had allowed himself to entertain the occasional fantasy involving one tall, sharp, curly-haired consulting detective. If he was honest with himself, he’d been quite smitten, and maybe the fantasies had been slightly more than occasional. But of course, Sherlock had jumped off a rooftop and John had been left on his own, to move on and push all of that away. And, of course, those feelings were gone now. Because he had Mary now, and he loved Mary. He was married to Mary. Mary was carrying his child. 

So why was it that it was Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s voice and his alabaster skin that appeared in his dreams, waking him far too often with an aching boner and a guilty conscience next to his sleeping wife?

These were the thoughts that eventually drove him over the brink, leading him to barge into the crack house and take it out on some unsuspecting druggie. And then he’d run into Sherlock, and, just as suspected, been unable to resist the allure of the case. The siren call of old habits, as Mycroft put it.

But then the case had gotten personal, and John had been dragged further into the emotional maelstrom, his love for Mary competing with the feeling of betrayal and his…whatever it was, for Sherlock. He’d had no choice but to distance himself, to put up walls much like the ones Sherlock himself must have constructed in his mind palace to keep him so above such pedestrian things as sentiment. He’d told himself over and over that it was Mary, _Mary_ who was priority number one, even as he’d stood on the airstrip and a little voice in his head had pounded desperately at the walls, screaming that he couldn’t let Sherlock go, that he had to find a way to bring him back. It was a good thing the plane had returned not ten minutes later, because John wasn’t sure what he would have done if it had ever actually hit him that he was losing Sherlock Holmes again. 

Now, just hours later, he was back in bed with Mary. She was sleeping peacefully, safe and calm, and all because of Sherlock. John was only now allowing himself to even think about it, cautiously, as though opening an overstuffed closet. Everything about Sherlock had been pushed to the side over the past few months, and it was now, lying quietly in the dark, that John was beginning to realize he may have been a massive prick about the entire situation.

It had started with a text from Molly. _How’s Sherlock?_ John had replied with a simple _all right,_ not really thinking about it, as had become habit when any thought that had to do with Sherlock popped up in his head. But some distant alarm bell had gone off in his mind, and now John could feel his resolve crumbling. Really, he should have known he wouldn’t be able to stay away from Sherlock in any capacity, physical or mental. His thoughts were racing back now, back to finding Sherlock collapsed and high as a kite, and the way the detective had brushed off John’s incredulous inquiry as to why Sherlock hadn’t _called_ him. John had felt a strong urge to gather the uncharacteristically disheveled man into his arms, but had firmly nipped the idea in the bud. Now, he was beginning to wonder if his determination to avoid thinking about Sherlock had been a grave mistake. 

He supposed, after he’d found out about Mary, he had blamed Sherlock just a little bit. It was stupid, it was nonsensical, but he’d wanted to blame someone other than himself, and Sherlock was _usually_ to blame when his life got complicated. But no, this had all been Mary. And Sherlock had done his best to make it so much easier for John, by claiming she’d saved his life. John knew the shot had nearly been fatal. Sherlock was lucky to have pulled through. But at the time, he had wanted so badly to have his faith in his marriage restored, and that meant continuing to push Sherlock away, even as the detective had collapsed after acting as intermediary between husband and wife. And then there had been the long months in which John had been rather distant with the both of them…. It struck John, now, how very near solicitous Sherlock had been during that time. And John hadn’t even thanked him. 

Not to mention everything that had come after that. First there had been _but look how you care about John Watson,_ and then the thing about the pressure points—and something about hearing that he was Sherlock’s pressure point and realizing that Sherlock didn’t count as his had shaken him for just a moment before he’d pushed it out of his mind—and then Sherlock’s mistake, and his unsettling silence, and the look on his face when John had turned to him and asked if he had a plan. Lying in the dark, John swallowed hard at the memory, recalling the way he had simply walked away when Sherlock had failed to answer. And then _let him, I’m sorry, just let him,_ and what must have been going through Sherlock’s mind, and the choice he must have made. _Get away from me John, stay well back. Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now._ Everything. Sherlock had given up everything, and for John, who hadn’t even bothered to see if Sherlock was all right in months. Who hadn’t even managed a proper goodbye when Sherlock was supposed to be leaving him for good.

The memory of Sherlock’s face as he’d stammered about something he wanted to tell John, something he always meant to say but didn’t, blossomed behind John’s eyelids. Guilt was coursing through his veins, sharp and heavy, as was an increasingly desperate desire to make sure Sherlock was okay. It was occurring to John that there was a very real possibility that he wasn’t, and John had been so stuck inside his own head and his own problems that he just hadn’t realized.

Easing carefully out of the bed so as not to wake Mary, John grabbed a pair of trousers and a jumper and slipped out into the hall to pull them on. He crept back inside to retrieve his phone and leave a scribbled note for Mary, stepped into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and quietly left the flat.

He dialed Molly’s number as he walked, checking his watch and wincing as Molly picked up, sounding half asleep.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Molly, so sorry to bother you. I didn’t realize it was this late. I, uh. I’ve got to ask you something.”

“John? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Well. I don’t know, to be honest. That’s…why I’m calling. Do you think…. Is Sherlock okay?”

There was a moment of silence. “Why are you asking me?”

John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just…. I think I might have been a bit preoccupied lately, and I know he’s done a lot for me, but I’m not sure he knows I know, and….with the drugs and the bullet wound and everything, I haven’t been there for him as much as I should have.”

“John, is there a reason you’re worried now?”

John paused. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was just something about his demeanor that made John’s heart twinge a bit. Something that John thought might have made its first appearance in the months leading up to John’s wedding. “He just seems….sad,” John said quietly. “And it’s been that way for a while. And I didn’t know. 

“John,” Molly said, and the sleepiness in her voice had given way to something else, something tremulous and guarded. “He cares about you. A lot. He’s not used to that. And I think…. I think he misses you. And he worries about you. He never really stopped, you know, after he jumped, and it wasn’t just you who went through a lot over those two years. You were settling down, with Mary, and moving on, but Sherlock wasn’t moving on. He thought about you every _day_ , John, because everything he went through over those two years was to save you. Greg and Mrs. Hudson too, but really it was you. It was always you.”

John realized he was walking more quickly now, Molly’s voice carrying him along and his heart thrumming anxiously in his chest. He’d been awful. He’d promised Mary wouldn’t change anything, and it had, and he hadn’t even noticed how much he was losing.

“I don’t know how much he’s told you about what happened while he was away,” Molly continued, her voice trembling a little.

“Nothing,” John cut in. “He’s told me nothing.”

“Did you ask?” 

John closed his eyes briefly. No, he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked.

“No,” he said softly. 

“Be gentle with him. Please,” Molly said, almost as if she were begging. “Do you know that he hears your voice in his head, John?” 

“What?” 

“When you’re not there, he hears you. He was away from you for two years, alone, being tortured and hearing your voice—”

“Being _what?_ ”

“Tortured, John!” Molly sounded close to tears. “I can’t help him. He was so alone for so long, and then he had you, and then he lost you again. And I think he still feels like he’s lost you. He’s still alone, and he needs you, and of course he’s sad! Of course he went back to the drugs, and I can’t slap him out of it. And I understand that you have a new life now, but he’s given up so much for you, and no, to answer your question, John, he’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since Moriarty set a sniper on you. Now Moriarty is back, and I don’t know what he’ll do to himself next.” Molly broke off with a sharp exhale. 

“Shit,” John said. “Dammit, Molly, why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I _ask_?” Images of Sherlock being tortured in some foreign country were racing through John’s mind, making him feel sick. “I’m nearly at the flat, I…. I’m not going to leave him behind like that again. Ever.”

“Good luck,” Molly said, her voice a bit more steady. “And be patient, John.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Goodnight,” John said, and hung up. He was in front of 221B now, and he stared for a moment at the crooked doorknocker before fumbling for the key and letting himself in. Quiet, melancholy violin music floated down from the floor above, and John took a deep breath, setting his jaw. It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

The sight that met John when he eased open the door to the flat stopped him in his tracks. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Papers littered the floor and covered every surface, interspersed here and there with books and binders and the occasional laptop. The chairs, tables, couches, everything was covered except for John’s armchair, which was like a spot of calm in the midst of a storm. John smiled slightly at it, realizing that 221B still felt more like home than the flat he shared with Mary.

Sherlock stood with his back to John, drawing the bow across the violin in swooping movements that filled the flat with a slow, mournful sound. He was looking out of the window, and John was reminded of another winter, the winter The Woman had “died.” There had been very little of the sociopath in Sherlock then.

Sherlock abandoned the song on a low, trembling note and turned to face John. “John. Don’t you have marital duties to be attending to?” He asked, turning away again to place the violin back in its case and loosen the bow. 

John didn’t answer. He was looking at Sherlock, really looking at him for the first time in months. The cheekbones stood out drastically against Sherlock’s pale face, and deep shadows lay beneath his eyes. His hair was wild and he was wearing a loose t-shirt, but even through that John could tell that he had lost weight. It all made John want to kick himself for letting this happen, right under his nose. 

“I’m sorry,” John said abruptly. 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes at John. “What for?”

“For….being a shit friend. You’ve done so much for me recently, Sherlock, and I never even said thank you. So. Thank you.”

“You’re….welcome,” Sherlock said, looking at John warily. 

John nodded stiffly, and looked around the room. He didn’t know what to say. Or rather, where to start saying everything he needed to say. “So, what’s all this?” He asked, gesturing to the mess.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said, and his voice was colored by something so dark that John’s breath nearly caught. He looked up, frowning. 

“So he’s really back, then? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock growled. “I don’t know if he’s back. I don’t know how he could be. But if he is….” He trailed off, his jaw clenching tightly. This kind of rage wasn’t Sherlock’s style. John raised his eyebrows, expectant.

“If he is….?”

“He’ll wish he had died on that rooftop,” Sherlock said coldly. The look on his face left no doubt in John’s mind that he meant what he said. Especially after so recently having watched Sherlock shoot a man down with barely a warning. In front of the British government. For John.

“What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock asked, his voice resigned. “You wouldn’t be here at three am if all was well.” 

John shook his head slightly. “That wasn’t the first time you’d killed someone,” he said, part question, part statement. Sherlock looked at him, his piercing grey eyes narrowed in a frown. 

“I don’t know what you think I was doing for two years, John,” he said, turning away. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. 

“I don’t know,” John said quietly. “I never asked. What were you doing? Where were you all that time, Sherlock?”

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock straightened a pile of dossiers. Then he turned back to John, looking down and running a hand through his mussed hair. “You should get back to Mary,” he said quietly, not meeting John’s eyes. 

“Not tonight,” John said, picking his way across to his armchair and sinking into its familiar cushions. “I left her a note. Tonight, I’m going to start making up for lost time, because there’s a lot I still don’t know. And I should have asked. I was distracted, I guess, but that doesn’t excuse it.”

“She is your wife, John. And she’s carrying your—your daughter.”

“Yeah, but you’re my best friend. I care about you too,” John said gently, watching as Sherlock froze momentarily where he was standing. “Anyway,” John continued, his heart aching a little at the memory of Sherlock’s reaction to finding out he was, in fact, John’s best friend. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to put me off?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, drawing his dressing gown more tightly around himself before sweeping a pile of documents off his own armchair and flopping into it dramatically. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Where did you go?”

“It would take me far too long to tell you all of that. The entirety of Europe, probably. I doubt I can even remember every country I visited.”

John thought Sherlock was probably lying about that last bit, but he let it go. “What were you doing?”

“Taking down Moriarty’s network. John, you know this.”

“Yeah, but…. It can’t have been easy, if it took you two years.”

“Not particularly easy, no.”

“So, what happened?”

“I got caught a few times. Sometimes I walked into it. Sometimes, I didn’t. I lost track of the trail every now and then. I was injured, and had to take time to heal before continuing.”

“Molly said you were….tortured.”

Sherlock’s hands gripped the arms of his chair. “Yes,” he said shortly.

John breathed out, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“How…. For how long?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and John immediately regretted the question. The detective’s face was impassive, but his body was tensed and his lip was shaking ever so slightly. “Multiple times,” Sherlock said, his eyes opening but not focusing on John. “It was….unpleasant.” He was silent for a moment, staring at a point beyond John’s ear. A few more seconds passed, and John leaned forward, unease prickling along his spine. Then Sherlock flinched violently, and John was out of his chair in a heartbeat. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me.” He laid a hand hesitantly on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock seemed to snap out of it, recoiling in the chair but meeting John’s eyes and swearing under his breath. Trembling hands moved to cover his face, and John stood back to let him breathe, watching with a sick feeling in his chest as Sherlock’s back shook and the detective visibly forced himself back into calm. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, looking up with a slightly embarrassed expression on his face. “That…. happens sometimes.” He lifted a shaking hand and looked at it, his mouth twisting into a moue of disgust.

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed the question.” He hesitated, sinking back down into his chair. “How long have you been getting flashbacks?”

Sherlock grimaced at the word. “Since it happened.”

“And… Have you talked to anyone about it?”

Sherlock sent John a scathing look. “I don’t need a therapist, John.”

“It could help,” John said, halfheartedly. His own therapist hadn’t done much for him, and anyway, he wasn’t sure there was any professional in London who could handle Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock just looked at him. John sighed, shaking his head. “How has this been going on since you returned without me noticing?”

Sherlock blinked. “You’ve been busy. And you are unobservant, and I am discreet. Normally.”

“But…” John trailed off. “I’ve been such a shit friend, Sherlock,” he said again, staring down at his hands and then looking back up. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked so young, perched in his chair with his knees tucked up to his chest, and yet John could see in the shadows beneath his eyes that the past two years had aged him in ways John wouldn’t wish on anyone. A flare of anger tore through him as he thought of who could have done this to Sherlock, to his Sherlock. It was sickening.

Sherlock was still looking at him with a slightly confused expression, and it occurred to John that Sherlock had no idea that he deserved more than John had given him. Sherlock’s understanding of these kinds of rules was rudimentary at best, and his experience with anything like this was potentially nonexistent. 

John shifted forward, coughing awkwardly. “Look, maybe you don’t realize… I should have noticed this. I should have asked what happened. I should have said thank you, Sherlock, for everything you did for me while Mary and I were…. And for shooting Magnussen. I don’t deserve everything you’ve done for me.”

“It’s….nothing.” Sherlock said, hesitantly. He was so clearly out of his depth that a small laugh escaped John’s lips. 

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…. You made a vow, on our—on my wedding night, and you’ve kept it even though the way I was treating you was enough to make anyone back off. So now I’m returning the favor. I haven’t been here for you, but I will be now. I promise.”

Sherlock looked back at him, and for a moment John caught a glimpse of a wealth of emotion in those eyes. He caught his breath, but Sherlock broke the eye contact and gave John a perfunctory nod. The tension in his body was obvious, and John decided it was better to let this track of conversation go, for now. There was still so much he didn’t know about what the past few years had been like for Sherlock, but pushing him too far was a bad idea. John knew he would get it out eventually. And in the meantime, John would do everything he could to help Sherlock heal. 

“Right,” John said, getting out of his chair. “I’m making breakfast, and you’re eating some. What do you want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments appreciated, as always!


	3. Chapter 3

John watched Sherlock with increasing concern as the morning wore on. He seemed almost shy as they worked through the piles of data he’d collected, looking for connections that could explain Moriarty’s apparent reappearance. Sherlock was avoiding John’s gaze and holding himself stiffly, reading through files with an inscrutable expression. He’d picked at the toast John had made, but most of it had ended up scattered around his plate rather than in his stomach. The weak sunlight filtering in through the windows did nothing to make him look healthier, highlighting his gaunt face and red-rimmed eyes.

Eventually John’s phone buzzed in his pocket and Sherlock stood up abruptly, leaving the room without a word. John frowned after him for a moment before extracting his phone and putting it to his ear.

“Good morning,” Mary said. “You left early.”

“Yeah, sorry. Casework,” John said, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“Right. You boys need any help?”

John hesitated, reluctant to invite Mary over. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to see her at the moment.

“Everything all right?” She asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, and lowered his voice, conscious of Sherlock’s keen ears. “Look, I’ll text you, okay?” 

“Okay,” Mary said slowly.

“Okay. Love you.”

“I love you too.”

John hung up and composed a quick text.

_Bit worried about him. I think I need to make sure he actually eats something and maybe sleeps for a few hours. He doesn’t look well and he’s a bit sulky, so I’d recommend keeping your distance today. See you later?_

Mary’s text came in a few seconds later. 

_Okay. Hope he’s all right. Lots of excitement the past few days, I doubt he’s slept at all._

_Thanks. I love you._

_I love you too._

When John looked back up, Sherlock had materialized in the doorway, fidgeting slightly with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“You don’t have to do this, John,” he said, looking down. “You’ve got another life, I understand that. You don’t have to feel obligated—”

“Stop it. I don’t want you dropping dead because you’ve forgotten to take care of yourself. And I’m here because I want to be. I told you it wouldn’t change things, being with Mary, and I know I let it slide a little with everything that was going on, but I don’t _want_ things to change with us. All right? I mean it.”

Sherlock looked up at him then, and for a second he looked so devastated that John took an unconscious step forward. It was gone in a flash, replaced by a cool mask, but John took another step anyway.

“Sherlock—”

“I’m taking a shower,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. He turned around and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly.

John stood in the living room, frowning. He didn’t like this. Sherlock was _hurting_ , clearly, and John didn’t know why or how to fix it. All he could do was refuse to abandon Sherlock the way he seemed to be expecting John to. 

And help him get back in physical health. John could do that, if Sherlock let him.

Sherlock had no food in the house now that they had used up his last four slices of bread, so John grabbed his coat from its hook and texted Sherlock to let him know he was going to pick up a few things. He wondered how long Sherlock would have gone without food if he hadn’t turned up. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have let him starve, at least, but there was no doubt that Sherlock was verging on dangerously underweight. And John hadn’t noticed until now. No wonder Sherlock expected him to just leave him like this.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. John could handle Sherlock as well as a wife and daughter. Sherlock had effectively taken care of all three of them over the past three months, and in the process he’d neglected himself, naturally. That was how Sherlock worked. He put the case before everything else, including basic necessities like nourishment and sleep, and for the past few months the case had been John’s family.

John took his time in the shop, choosing food that would put some weight on Sherlock. He found himself unconsciously shopping for himself as well, throwing things he liked in the trolley before realizing that he no longer lived at 221B. For some reason he couldn’t quite bear the thought of putting them back on the shelves, though, so he bought it all anyway. He spent a lot of time at Baker Street, he told himself, so it made sense to keep some food he liked there.

He struggled back into the flat with the shopping a little while later, kicking the door shut with his foot.

“Got some food,” he called to Sherlock’s prone form on the sofa as he began putting away the food. “You’re going to eat it.”

From the living room came a soft thump. John paused, quieting the rustling of the bags to listen. Then Sherlock’s voice wafted in, sounding sleepy.

“You came back?”

John frowned and put down the bag he was holding. He stepped back into the living room.

“Yeah, I texted you….” He said, and then trailed off. Sherlock was sitting on the floor in a new set of pajamas, his dressing gown trailing off the couch. His hair was still damp and drying in a cloud of frizz. It looked like he’d fallen off the sofa, and he was gazing at John with a hazy expression, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. 

Then John noticed the bag of pills on the floor.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. What did you take?” John stepped forward and picked up the bag, his heart thudding in his chest and his hand going to his mobile just in case. He wasn’t going to come close to losing Sherlock again, not so soon. 

“Morphine,” Sherlock said, his head lolling back against the sofa. “Mycroft confiscated everything else.”

John closed his eyes briefly and breathed out. He should have expected this. “How many?”

“Mmm….  Three. Maybe. Not sure.” Sherlock paused. “You weren’t supposed to see.” 

“I texted you,” John said again, opening his eyes. Three wasn’t good, but it wasn’t dangerous. He didn’t need to take Sherlock to the hospital. Not yet, anyway.

“Phone’s off.” 

“You turned your phone off?” John had never known Sherlock to willingly go without his mobile.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled, his lip twitching in a halfhearted imitation of a sneer. He turned his head lazily and regarded John with half-lidded eyes. “You’ll be angry. You weren’t supposed to see,” he said again. “Any of this. Any of. I’m. I’m sorry.” Sherlock was staring at John’s shoes, and he looked so crestfallen that John’s anger melted away.

“I’m not angry,” John said, sitting down next to Sherlock. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock. It will kill you if you keep it up, and I can’t watch that happen again. It would kill me, losing you again. So just. Don’t. Please.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock’s head flopped against his shoulder. “John,” Sherlock said, his breath ghosting across John’s neck. “Why are you so important?”

“What?”

“I won’t do it anymore. If you ask me not to. Even though it helps with…. It helps. Everything else hurts. Even the cases hurt. But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop.”

John inhaled slowly. Sherlock’s words made his heart ache, and it seemed perfectly natural to put his arm around the detective and tug him close, as though he could protect him from whatever it was that haunted him. Sherlock’s face burrowed against his chest and he hummed contentedly.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I’m not,” John said, brushing his fingers absently through Sherlock’s curls. It occurred to him that this was not, strictly speaking, something men who were just friends did, but he found that he was somewhat past the point of caring.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed against him. “She makes you happy.”

John frowned. There was an idea floating around his mind. It was ludicrous, really, but…. 

“Are you jealous?” He asked, trying to sound like he was joking.

Sherlock rubbed his face against John’s jumper and exhaled. “Yes,” he said, and John’s heart skipped a beat. “But I can’t tell you that.”

Sherlock had said yes. What did that mean? He didn’t mean romantically, surely, but the idea was tantalizing, and it _shouldn’t_ have been tantalizing, not when John had a wife and daughter. _But I can’t tell you that._ Clearly the morphine was lowering Sherlock’s inhibitions. John licked his lips, feeling a bit guilty.

“You do know I’m right here,” he said, stroking Sherlock’s hair again.

Sherlock hummed and moved his head up to rest it on John’s shoulder again. “Yes, but you’re not real.”

John’s hand stilled, causing Sherlock to make a small noise of protest. “What do you mean, I’m not real?”

“I know you’re not real,” Sherlock said, sounding resigned. “You’re in my head. Sentiment.”

“Sherlock….” John trailed off. Sherlock had known John was real just a few minutes ago. The drug was apparently still reaching its maximum effect.

“You were very helpful,” Sherlock continued, mumbling in John’s ear. “While I was away. I needed….. You’re still helpful. But sometimes I have to tell you to shut up. You get angry when the real you is angry. It’s an interesting—interesting.”

John frowned down at Sherlock. Was this what Molly had been talking about? John wondered how she knew. It was…. Well, a bit endearing, but more worrying. John didn’t want to think about Sherlock needing an imaginary version of him in his head. It made him wonder what Sherlock had pictured him saying for two years. He found himself quite angry with his imaginary counterpart for not doing a better job of taking care of his detective.

It seemed that was something they had in common.

“Don’t leave,” Sherlock murmured, and John felt something crumble inside him. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s curls and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He imagined telling Sherlock he loved him, and it wasn’t so hard, with Sherlock in this state, to imagine that Sherlock would say it back. And then John thought of Mary, and the baby, and the guilt was like a wave of ice.

“I won’t leave,” John said, his face still pressed against Sherlock’s curls. Then, more quietly, “I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, picking it up and holding it gingerly as if he was afraid it would disappear. “You always know what to do. I don’t. I don’t know what to do, John, tell me what to do.”

“Stop doing this to yourself, first of all,” John said, sighing.

“You said that before,” Sherlock mumbled. “When I went back. To the drugs. You were in my head. You said I was letting you down. But the real you was with Mary, so it didn’t matter.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, more guilt coursing through him. “It mattered. If I’d known….” He trailed off, because if he’d paid more attention, he would have known.

Sherlock seemed to be on a roll now. John wondered if he should stop him, because if he were sober, Sherlock would never have revealed this much. But he couldn’t bear to tell Sherlock to stop, not when the detective had been alone for so long without anyone listening. 

“I want you to keep being happy, John. It’s important. Don’t know why, but it is. Important. So.” Sherlock paused for a moment, idly stroking John’s fingers with his own long, pale ones. “I don’t know why I don’t like it, when you’re….with her. I like you being happy. I just. I wish I could.” He didn’t seem to know how to end the sentence, and he simply sighed, something long and sad and defeated that John never wanted to hear again. 

“I didn’t want to leave,” Sherlock continued, quietly. “The first time or the second time. I had to, because you’re important. Vital. It’s vital that you are safe. And not sad, I can’t let you be sad. So I had to shoot him. Magnussen. Because Mary’s your pressure—pressure point, and he had Mary. You love Mary. You can’t see her hurt, or it would hurt you. She can’t be taken away, or it would hurt you.” Sherlock spoke as if he were assembling the facts for a case, ticking them off and putting them in a logical sequence. “You can’t be hurt. So I shot him,” Sherlock said, slurring the words. “And it was going to be just like if I hadn’t come back. As if I really had jumped. Mycroft said I’d be dead in six months. You had Mary and a baby. Everything would have been perfect for you.”

“No. No, Sherlock, stop it. I didn’t want to lose you again. I hadn’t—it hadn’t occurred to me yet—"

“You had Mary. It was fine. I know it was fine, I saw it in your face.”

“No, it wasn’t! It is never okay for you to leave me like that, Sherlock, because I can’t handle it. You’re one of the two—three—most important people in my life, and I’m not losing you. I’m not. Do you understand me?” John could feel himself getting agitated, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sherlock not knowing that John needed him, of Sherlock thinking that it was perfectly fine for him to leave John again.

“You can, though,” Sherlock mumbled. “Handle it. You were always the stronger man.”

“Sherlock,” John said, sharply, but Sherlock ignored him.

“It’s okay,” he said, quietly. “S’long as you’re happy. That’s the point.”

“Sherlock,” John said again, surprised to hear his voice break in between the syllables. But Sherlock seemed to have exhausted his ability to hold a conversation and was slipping into a doze against John’s side. John, sighing, cradled him close and refrained from kissing the top of his head. 

Sherlock’s voice broke the quiet one more time, barely articulate enough for John to understand. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Sherlock yawned, wriggled closer, and said, “that the baby’s not yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sherlock was in fact a bit bulkier this season (that white shirt... *o*), but... Creative license.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments appreciated, as always. More to come.


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